


Cabbages and Dragons

by linwesingollo



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linwesingollo/pseuds/linwesingollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1 of 2.</p><p>Frodo tries to talk Sam into starting a new hobby.</p><p>I squirrel away bits of ideas like a packrat, so it's got Sem's Sam's dibber, FroSpecs, refs to obscure medieval games, a quote by Rabelais, a nod to Milne, and who knows what-all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“We‘ve some leek and mushroom pastry left over, or I could make tomato and spinach soup with mushroom croutons.” 

Funny how Frodo had sensed his presence before he had even spoken. He had always taken no small amount of pride in being able to move quietly. Apparently, the silent weight and measure of his tread in the hallway had been expected. 

"I‘m not feeling particular about tea."

Frodo looked up from his desk to give him a sharp look. He had risen late-ish as usual, slipping on the faded scarlet dressing gown to amble sleepily into the kitchen to put the tea kettle on, then mug in hand, owlishly blinking his way to the post box to pick up the morning’s mail.

“Since when haven’t you felt particular about tea?”

While Sam had already been toiling in his garden, Frodo had had a leisurely wash and late breakfast, then slipped into his study to begin the job of writing out the daily correspondence.

First the accounting of bills and then the writing of sundry notes and letters to relatives and acquaintances. The red sealing wax and the Baggins signet ring were at hand, and a sheaf of heavy speckled-and-cream stationery. Sam had made the paper from carefully chosen mushrooms, the sturdy stubborn ones that clung to tree roots, reluctant to trade their damp secret life for the honor of bearing their life’s blood under the Baggins hand. 

Sam pondered whether now was a good time to query his master. He knew that asking Frodo questions was the best way to draw him out. One thing often led to another. But there were the rare occasions when he had to choose his questions with care. Ask the wrong one when the mood was against the wind and Frodo could turn waspish. He guessed the letter-writing had become irksome.

“I could prepare those greens with the garlic and blackberry dressing --” 

Frodo leaned back in his chair, pondering, tapping his chin with his quill. 

“The herbed bread you made yesterday would taste wonderful with the dressing.” 

The chair swiveled in his direction.

“What is it, Sam? You’re looking at me as if I’d just invented afternoon tea. That is what you came in for, isn’t it? I saw you heading this way so I was about to get up and put the kettle on. As usual, your sense of timing is even sounder than Bilbo‘s old mantel clock. I don‘t know why I even bother keeping it.”

Seemed the weather in Bag End was prankish and uncertain. Frodo‘s usual honeyed voice had a drop of vinegar in it.

"I was just wondering why you have to write so many letters. I mean…beggin‘ your pardon, but I don‘t see the use of it."

Frodo's quill paused mid-word, his eyes peering quizzically over the delicate gold rims of his reading glasses. 

“Don’t beg for my pardon, Sam,“ he said automatically with a patient sigh. “You’ve raised an interesting question; one that I‘ve been asking myself over and over again in the past hour. I write because I wish to say something to this person, and in many cases - far too many cases for my taste - civility requires that I respond whether I wish to say anything or not.”

“Seems you could just wait ‘til you see them. Might be quicker’n the Post. Even better, drop word down at the Dragon and they‘ll hear it afore Dad’s had his third pint.”

Frodo’s reading glasses slipped to perch piquantly near the tip of his nose. 

"I don’t doubt that’s true. But this particular letter is for this person’s eyes only, not for the entertainment of half the Shire, not to mention that the message would be badly muddled and embroidered by the time it reached the intended‘s ears, though doubtless more interesting. Have you never written a letter to anyone, Sam?"

Sam shrugged in a vague way, not wishing to be seen lacking on any road in his master's eyes. He never saw the need for letter-writing, despite that Mr. Bilbo himself had learned him his letters in the face of heavy misgivings and warnings on the part of his Gaffer. _Better for you to rub your arse against a thistle than waste away your time in book-learning_ he always advised him before he made the glad climb to Bag Shot Row for his weekly reading lesson with Bilbo. 

Privately, Sam rather doubted the wisdom of this proverb. There had been many a long ramble with Frodo when sudden need required him to seek privacy behind an ample Sam-sized bush. Haste had often overruled caution, resulting in his tender hinder parts meeting with the angry retaliation of rudely disturbed thistles. He had much preferred the gentler prick of Bilbo’s corrections, thank you very much. 

He'd even been willing to suffer all manner of good-natured teasing when he got his letters wrong for the stories that had been woven in his lessons. Still, the sight of his words staring back up at him from a sheet a paper had always made him a little uneasy. They never looked quite the same on the outside as they did on the inside of him.

"Seems a hard job pulling all those words out of your head and laying them out on paper."

Frodo patiently laid down his quill, lifting a slender velvet-clad leg to rest across one knee, lacing his fingers behind his neck where a goblin’s fist of a knot had taken hold. He quite liked the look of Sam standing in the doorway of his study, the way his earthy presence pushed back the faint musty smell of his books, liked the stubborn thrust of jaw when he had something on his mind and was determined to see it through. Far pleasanter than responding to invitations with pleasantries he did not feel. He noted the ever-present dibber in his pocket. He had been in the gardens, laying out rows of vegetables like so many words in a long sentence….writing in his garden, he thought idly. The comparison amused him.

“On the contrary, Sam. Sometimes I find it easier to put my words on paper. It gives me time to think and find the right word. Besides…” he paused to unroll his shirt-cuffs from mid-elbow then button them at the wrists - more to give himself time to think than anything else. A bare wedge of golden-brown skin revealed by the open button of his gardener’s shirt was distracting him and put him in danger of losing his train of thought altogether. How often had he lifted his nose from his letters to gaze out his window and rest his eyes on Sam’s sturdy shoulders and rump while he worked assiduously at his turnips? He cast a glance to the considerable pile of rumpled and blotched notes in the wastebasket and regretted the waste of good paper.

“Besides…with certain letters, especially letters to close friends, the recipient has a tangible form of your thoughts and may save them if he wishes to.”

Sam doubted that anyone would bother saving his words. He figured a good deal of it was better left unsaid in the first place. 

"It’s not so difficult if you just write from the heart, Sam. You might be surprised what some folks will find worth in."

Sam took a moment to tick off what was in his heart and was satisfied with what he found. A Shire-sized assortment of simple poems and songs, the first green of Spring, dew at sunrise, the taste of fresh mushrooms and a cold pint at the end of a day, a new package of seeds as full as promise. The words he’d choose might not be as fine as Mr. Frodo’s but they served him well enough, just as his sturdy gardening tools did. They got the job done. Now, Mr. Frodo here could write some mighty fine poems when he put his mind to it…

Mr. Bilbo has learned him his letters - meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it.

Elves and Dragons! Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and you. Don’t go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, or you’ll land in trouble too big for you…

Sam shrugged again. Frodo was all elves and dragons, and star-fire thrown in for good measure. And he, Samwise Gamgee, was plain cabbages and potatoes - - a good Oatbarton Russet, if he had the say in its choosing. 

Frodo was eyeing him speculatively.

“I envy you, Sam.” 

He stretched and yawned hugely, rubbing his neck and giving Sam a glimpse of pale, softly rounded belly peeking from beneath the hem of linen shirt. His braces still hung in loose loops at his sides and the top button of his breeches had been overlooked - too sleepy and preoccupied to tend to sartorial details in the first hours of the day. Eventually he’d notice and by evening the braces would be in their proper place and all buttons safely moored. Sam would never forget the time that Frodo had been in a similar state of careless undress when a loose brace caught on a cupboard knob just as he was bending down to hunt for bowl in the lower shelves. Sam had walked in on Frodo bent bare-arsed over the cupboard with a tangle of brown velvet at his ankles. He had backed hastily out of the kitchen. Although Frodo never mentioned it, Sam somehow suspected that he had been aware of his presence. 

“Digging up turnips would be a welcome change. Besides turning down all these tiresome invitations, three of which contained thinly disguised requests for money and one not so thinly disguised, I have yet to write a tediously polite letter to Will Whitfoot explaining that of course I will be delighted to spend the better part of a day rummaging in my closets hauling out Bilbo’s dwarvish instrument collection - accompanied by a detailed provenance for each and every one, no less - and donate them to the Mathom-house for the honorable purpose of Preserving Important Shire History. Of course, he also expects me to send them all by post. Think of the postage it’ll cost me! Too busy to pick them up himself, he says. Too lazy, is more like it. Bother!” Frodo paused to cup his chin while his eyes took on a thoughtful, far-off look. 

“Wrapping that dudelsack in its present delicate condition will be a nightmare,” he murmured to himself.

Frodo leaned forward in his chair to cap the ink bottle in a decisive manner. As Frodo’s complaint had been without much rancor, Sam strongly suspected that while the cost of postage would cause him some discomfort, he secretly relished the prospect of writing lengthy provenances for obscure musical instruments of dwarvish make. He’d soon have his nose firmly entrenched in stacks of thick books over the course of the next several weeks, happily taking down copious notes. 

Bother old Flourdumpling! Books and letters were stiff competition for a plain tater as himself when it came to vying for his master’s attention these days. There’ll be no after-dinner stories for Sam Gamgee for who knew how many nights?

“Have you ever thought of learning to play the dudelsack, Sam? I think it would be just the instrument for you.” Frodo said suddenly. “I could teach you.”

Old Bilbo used to play the small pipes, pouch tucked beneath an arm, proud pipes stiffly erect while his fingers lightly danced over the chanter. ’Durin’s Pride’, Bilbo had confided once when he had been deep in his cups, much to Sam‘s acute discomfort, before launching into a lusty rendition of “Blow The Coal“ then smoothly segueing into the even more vulgar “Nose To Breech” and “Have At Nuts”. Nothing good came of trafficking with dwarves and Morrowdim Mead.

“I don’t know, Mr. Frodo. I’d druther listen to music than make it. Dudelsacks aren’t for the likes of me.”

Frodo smiled up at him. “It’s not so difficult. We could start with some simple tunes. It’s just a lot of blowing and squeezing.”

Sam felt a hot blush creep up to his ears. That slow, knowing smile and the deliberate way he said blowing and squeezing, made him squirm in a way that he wouldn‘t have predicted…

“Don‘t give me that look. You won’t know if you’ll like it until you’ve tried it. Music can be very relaxing, you know.”

Fine for Frodo to talk. He had an ear and a good voice; a light tenor that often wafted out over the garden like a warm autumn breeze as he worked. He vowed it made the flowers grow faster and brighter.

Frodo began briskly clearing his desktop of paper and quills. “We wouldn’t use the old dudelsack. That’ll be put in the Mathom-house. What I had in mind was a smaller one that Bilbo kept for his personal use, “The Little Bee” he called it. A sweeter pipe and a little less…ah…aggressive in tone. Think about it, Sam. At any rate, it would keep the Sackville-Bagginses from my doorstep for a while.” 

While he was all for keeping the Sackville-Bagginses away from doorsteps, Sam decided that any thinking he did would be towards steering the conversation to higher and safer ground, like this afternoon‘s tea.

“Mebbe…“ he offered noncommittally, shoving his hand in his pocket to idly finger his dibber. “I did come in with a mind for tea. Them mushroom pastries and greens would do fine, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo nodded absently and thumbed his braces to his shoulders, knowing when he had pushed a subject far enough for the time being. “We may as well have the bread and the soup, too. Letter-writing makes me hungry.”

“Everything makes me hungry,” Sam said with feeling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash implied.

“Do ye think he’s home?”

“Shush! Of course he’s home. Hiding in his books as usual and ignoring the doorbell.”

“I don’t hear nothing.”

“If you’d quit talking…”

The S-B’s stood on the threshold of Bag End, Lobelia’s stout walking stick poised to put a sizeable dent in the green door, when the pair of them heard a low moan issuing from within.

“What’s that?” asked Lotho.

“Be quiet! I’m trying to listen!”

Lobelia pressed her ear against the wooden door and heard low murmuring.

“I hear talk. He’s got that dratted gardener of his in there.”

Otho shrugged and turned ready to leave.

“Leave it, wife, we can’t get past him.”

Lobelia straightened up and thrust her meaty fists on her ample hips to block her husband‘s escape.

“We’re not going anywhere until I’ve had my say with that interloper Baggins.”

“You have a say with him, my dear. I’ve had a run-in with Gamgee and I don’t care for another. Threatened me with his trowel last time, he did. Best to corner Baggins when he‘s alone, which is seldom now that I think of it.”

Lobelia gave her husband a withering look of scorn and bent her ear to the keyhole once again. The moaning was interspersed with an occasional desperate squeal.

“Blow harder, Sam,” came the low coaxing voice of the master of Bag End.

“And you’re not squeezing hard enough.”

Puffing and grunting turned to low moans.

“Put your hand there, Sam, and blow harder.”

A high-pitched keening skirled up on the other side of the door.

Lobelia flinched from it as if had turned white-hot.

“Well!!”

Her hand grasped her throat as she struggled for words.

“I knew it! 

Otho quickly sized up the situation. 

“Sounds like Gamgee’s got hisself a side job, having a bit o’ fun with his master,” He commented drily, working hard to suppress a grin.

It was plain his wife was working up to a good blow herself, so he braced for it.

“How dare he lower himself! I’ve always said Frodo was a disgrace to the Baggins name!”

“Not so loud, woman! They’ll hear! Besides, I don‘t think he‘s the one who‘s done the lowerin‘,” replied Otho, unable to help himself and no longer able to suppress a grin.

Lobelia turned on him with a quelling glare.

“Who can hear anything over that indecent racket? Anyway, I don’t care if he does hear me! It’s time that ne’er-do-well was straightened out!”

“Sounds to me Gamgee’s doin’ just that,” muttered Otho, not without a twinge of envy.

He thrust his hands into his pockets to hide his own growing interest in the proceedings beyond the round green door. Women didn’t understand these things as men did. Lobelia had been fair enough in her day; high-spirited, too. But what beauty she once owned had hardened over the years and the high-spirits had turned to sour bullying. Used to be reliable for plenty of sport in the marriage bed, too, but that had petered down to the occasional resigned duty on Lobelia’s part.

He’d never cared much for Gamgee but apparently the lad had talents. He’d heard quiet talk down at the Dragon of a late night of some tryin’ the other side of the fence, so to speak, and mebbe it was time he fancied a taste himself. Not Baggins, of course, though he‘d have pegged him as a quieter sort. At least the lad knew how to express his appreciation. But not his cup o’ tea. Too fine. Now that young Brandybuck fellow might be more to his liking...

******

Sam leaned back, eyes closed, flushed and panting.

“Put the dudelsack down, Sam, and let‘s have tea. I think that’s enough for your first lesson today.”


End file.
